When Death Flees
by Etimire T
Summary: "You don't die, Sherlock. It's a part of your DNA. No use arguing." "NO USE?" Sherlock banged his fist, "I jumped off a ten story building! People can't just NOT die EVER!" "And since when were you people, Sherlock?" murmured the Doctor, "You hardly even LOOK like people." "I woke up in a morgue, for stars sake! I. WAS. DEAD." "And now you're not. I think I've proven my point."
1. When Death Flees

Summary: I died for the first time today, like _actually_ died, and it won't be the last. Death can't seem to keep me, even though it defies all logic for me to survive my jump off the hospital roof. So now here I am, several hours later, Sherlock Holmes, locked in the morgue, running out if air, and supposed to be dead. And to top it all off, the only one who can help me is this bow-tie sporting idiot called The Doctor.

* * *

I gasped, my mouth dry as I struggled to draw life into my lungs. Why can't I breathe? It's always been so easy, in, out, in, out, but now taking a breath the hardest thing I'd ever done. My heart stuttered in my chest, like kick starting a car. It began beating frantically, making up for the lack of air. After what felt like a million years of gapping like a fish out of water, something gave way and oxygen rushed through me. Gulping it down, I tried to recuperate using my usual logical process.

How did I get here? _Wherever _here_ is…_ A memory sparked across my closed eyelids, making me tremble. There's not a lot I am truly afraid of, but those last few moments as I fell through the air, realizing I wasn't going to survive, were the most terrifying in my life.

It's then that I recall my life should have ended. I should be dead. Silly Sherlock Holmes with the funny scarf, running about solving crimes to keep him self from going mad had failed. Sure I had a plan to survive. It was all worked out in my head, but when the moment came, I slipped up. I fell, and there was no one there to catch me.

I could feel the wind send its fingers through my hair like the busybody it was. It lifted my black coat behind me, a morbid cape. As the ground grew closer, I never closed my eyes; instead I screamed, utterly terrified. The concrete rushed up to me, I felt a sharp pain in my neck, and the world flicked off like a light switch.

So was this death, then? Some sort of rubbish afterlife? No, of course not. That was ridiculous. Beneath me, I could feel ice cold metal. On top was the slight weight of a sheet. If I was dead then… well, I didn't know. Can dead people feel? My heart was beating in my chest, rewound and slowly counting down again. Deciding I wasn't deceased, I tried to move. However, the moment I did, spasms of pins and needles flashed like lightning down my arms and legs. I gasped, thrashing in pain as cramps locked my legs. My head slammed against the ceiling and my arms against the walls. Suppose that's what you get when your blood stops moving for… for however long it stopped. It only felt like a moment had passed since I'd hit the ground, but that was unlikely. Moaning, I lay still.

A sudden thought typed its way across my closed eyelids accompanied by a spark of fear. Was I in a coffin? The walls were close enough to be one, however, my fear died down as my mind automatically started deducing. _Calm down, Sherlock, this isn't a horror film…_ It was freezing in here, like a fridge. Coffins aren't cold, and coffins aren't metal… usually. Flicking open my eyes, I was met by identical darkness. Cautiously, I clenched my fist and lifted it to the ceiling above me. I met resistance about two feet from my face. Slowly uncurling my fingers, I pressed against the ceiling with both hands. With care, I traced down the walls. My heart raced for a moment, claustrophobia attempting to overwhelm me. My breath came fast and I shut my eyes quickly. _Stop it_. I told myself sternly. _You'll never get out if you panic._

After a moment, I managed to get my heart rate down to a reasonable level. _How to escape… I need to concentrate on escaping… _And to do that, I needed to know where I was. Biting my lip, I felt pain_. Not a dream, then…_ Lifting my hands in a praying position beneath my chin that I found comforting, I opened the door and stepped into my mind palace.

I found myself in a library with thousands of books stacked in twenty foot tall bookshelves. Sunlight fell in sheets through floor-to-ceiling stain glass windows. Peace washed through me. I admired the way my mind filled the gaps in a setting without me having to explicitly think about it. Out the window was a garden, and inside, the wooden floor was spotlessly clean. I could see the inverted reflection of myself at my feet. This was where I kept all my memories, each book a different scene. Smirking, I slowly wound in and out of the book shelves, waiting for a book to catch my eye. There was a memory in here that could help me figure out where I was, I just needed to find it.

After a few moments, my eye fell on a small binder. Reaching forward, I picked it up and opened it to a page at random. I watched the scene around me fade like a chalk painting in rain, to be replaced by a memory. It was a few hours before I met John for the first time.

_"Are you sure this is necessary?" Molly murmured nervously, clutching her clipboard. Her white coat blended in with the surrounding walls of the morgue. It smelled like antiseptic and cleaning supplies in here._

_"Don't be ridiculous, of course it's necessary, Mary." I murmured, inspecting the metal cupboards where dead bodies were placed. I unlocked one and carefully inspected the blue corpse within. "Hmm… A bit fatter, I think." The body had to be exactly the right size for my experiment to work correctly._

_Molly swept a hair from her face, "It's Molly, actually."_

_I didn't glance up, "Did you say something?"_

_The girl, she didn't really look like a woman, appeared flustered. "Um- no. No," she laughed nervously, and I wondered why, "I'm going to just leave you to your-uh- work."_

_In the long run, I suppose I should have given her a response of some sort, but I was too busy inspecting the body in cupboard 3B. The corpse wasn't exactly what I needed, but it would suffice._

_"Okay!' Molly said brightly after an awkward pause. I heard her footsteps as she walked away and I sighed. Keep everyone at arms length, be clueless, don't react, those were just a few of the rules I gave myself. These rules kept me safe; they kept me from getting hurt. I didn't have room in my mind to pick up on social clues because I needed space to solve my mysteries. After a while, being distant got easier and I did it without even trying._

Gasping, I sat up suddenly, my mind palace dissipating like smoke. My forehead smacked against the ceiling, but I didn't care.

_The metal cabinets_. Good grief, I was in one of the metal cabinets at the morgue! Once more I felt panic overwhelm me. These things were air sealed like a refrigerator! How long would the oxygen last? _Only a few minutes, judging by the size_. If I didn't get out of here soon, I'd suffocate and die-erm- die _again_. I shook the thought away. It's impossible I died, otherwise I wouldn't be alive. Someone had made a mistake, or something. That happened sometimes, right?

I didn't really believe that. Maybe on the operation table someone may be dead for a few minutes, but by the time the body was put in the cabinets, they were dead for at least an hour. Shivering, I dismissed the notion. I didn't have time to think about that.

The room was already feeling extremely suffocating and I shortened my breaths. I needed to make noise. Maybe someone would hear and let me out? I almost laughed. This entire situation was like one of those cheesy movies that always came out around Halloween. I'd be convincing people that the zombie apocalypse had overstepped the bounds of fiction.

Whatever, I needed to get out. Gathering up the thin air, I shouted at the top of my lungs, banging and kicking the walls. After several minutes, my throat was raw and my knuckles bruised. Still no response. Resuming my shouts, I continued until I was gasping for air that wasn't there. I coughed, and lay still. How ironic, to survive such a long fall only to die in a dead person fridge...

My breath became more and more shallow. _Dead person fridge, that's what they should be called_, I thought disjointedly. Stars appeared behind my closed lids and I gave up. _Fine_. _I'm supposed to be dead any way. _The world grew even darker, if that was possible, and I knew in a few moments I'd be unconscious.

It was in that last moment, I heard the air seal release. Groaning faintly, I felt someone pulling me out. An onrush of oxygen met my lungs. Gagging and coughing, I breathed in the air. It's amazing how much we take for granted things like oxygen. Now I was gulping it down like I could never get enough.

After a moment, I calmed down enough to open my eyes again. I realized someone had opened the door of the cabinet, and I stared up at the blurry form my rescuer.

I blinked, even the slight light was blinding. Squinting, I managed to bring into focus the person above me. Confusion coiled around me at the sight.

My voice was crackled and dry, the way it was when I almost got strangled a while back. "Mycroft?" I whispered hoarsely.


	2. Sheets and Umbrellas

Chapter 2

I don't think I've ever seen my brother so rattled. His whole 'English gentlemen' display came crashing down and he stared. If we were not in this current situation, I would have teased his pale face and shaking hands, but… that was a bit out of the question now. Granted, if I really had died, he had a reason to be afraid. However, that's ridiculous. People don't just 'come back'.

"Good grief, he told the truth." Mycroft whispered. His eyes grew wide, and he stumbled back a step or two. "I didn't- I saw you- how can you be-"

I sat up slowly, pinching between my eyebrows where a horrid headache was beginning to form. I groaned, "It would be absolutely _delightful_ if you would shut up about now." My words were spoken quietly, but it was like gunfire to my brother.

He froze, pupils dilating. "Sherlock, is it really you?" He looked away from me, babbling, "No, it can't be. This isn't real- it's not real- you're not-"

"_Mycroft_!" I whisper-shouted as loud as my near suffocated throat would allow me. "For all things scientific, _get control of yourself_!"

He calmed down then, straightening his jacket, swiping his balding head with a handkerchief, and picking up his abandoned umbrella. I never understood Mycroft's insistence on that particular fashion statement. To the common observer, he was perfectly collected, but I'm his brother. He was terrified and one poke would send him sprawling. I guess that's what happens when you pull a very much alive brother from a dead person fridge after you watched him commit 'suicide'. I probably should have cut him some slack… but then again, this is _Mycroft_ I'm talking about. The brother who used to tell me I was dropped off in a suitcase on the back porch when I was just an infant, or that I was found sinking in the river behind our summer home. He did everything he could do to be just about the worst brother ever.

_ Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me_. Ha! Tell that to Mycroft. There were times I would rather he used sticks and stones than his chosen weapon. He was never the violent type, preferring to use words as his henchmen to inflict wounds upon his adversary, namely me. He was largely the reason started to I keep myself from everyone else.

No, I wasn't giving him any slack. "Mycroft, I don't think you understand the concept of the _trust fall_."

Mycroft bit his lip. Hard. "Drat it, Sherlock!"

"You better have a heck of an explanation." I muttered. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I realized at that moment that the sheet was all I wore. Snatching at it, I kept the white covering from slipping to the floor. _Well,_ I thought, _I've been worse places in just a sheet._

Mycroft leaned against a metal table, his eyes glued to me. "Sherlock." He said.

I glanced up at him, meeting my brother's gaze. The light from the emergency exit light across the room stung my eyes and I blinked rapidly. After a moment, the pain dulled and I could see again. When my eyes met his once more, it was like for an instant I could see straight into his soul. Mycroft was an open book. He didn't know what was happening, and he wasn't just afraid, he was _terrified_.

_I'm seeing a pigtails, maybe eight or nine year's old, frilly skirt. _A voice butted into my thoughts, the memory of a something I couldn't quite remember. I shook the disconcerting feeling away and it fled without resistance.

Mycroft stood in front of me at loss. "You're dead." The words fell like drool from his mouth and pooled between us.

Snorting, I rolled my eyes and then quickly regretted the action. My seed of a headache was maturing nicely. "If I'm dead then how am I alive?" I asked it like it was for his benefit- like I knew the answer, but the same eight words were screaming inside my head.

Mycroft shook his head. "We failed, Sherlock. We all failed, and you died." He turned away for a moment, biting his knuckles. "I watched you fall and I couldn't save you." He was getting worked up again, "I saw the blood on the concrete mixed with yesterday's rain. It was _real_ blood, Sherlock. Your blood."

I had two responses to this. Either absolute panic, or insolence. "You've turned into a real poet, brother."

Mycroft's face reddened with anger and for a moment I thought he would throttle me. "If I had not just seen you with a broken neck dead on an operating table, I would kill you."

"That's very comforting."

"Don't push your luck."

I could see our banter had calmed him to a more reasoning level. "I must not have been dead."

Mycroft shook his head, "No, no, this wasn't-" He shook his head despairingly, "They took you in on an operating table, even though you died on impact-" he stared at the ceiling, like his answers were thumbtacked up there, "Jeeze- I cannot believe I am having this conversation."

"If it's any comfort, you did not wake up in a morgue- in the refrigerator." I said, "I think I win the 'I can't believe this is happening' contest."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Good point." We were both silent for a moment, but as usual, Mycroft couldn't keep his mouth shut for more than a five second average. "I felt your pulse." He murmured. "There was nothing."

Shrugging, I tried to appear unconcerned, "You were mistaken."

"Maybe." Mycroft said, "But that wasn't all."

I groaned inwardly. "What else?"

"Your neck…" he fell silent, staring at the floor now.

"Mycroft." I warned, "Tell me."

My brother bit his lip. "I touched it- your neck, just to be sure it was truly broken. I- I had to know for sure."

My lips curled back in aversion, "Jeeze Mycroft, that's disgusting." I paused, "Was it like-"

"What?"

I shrugged, "All crooked," I demonstrated with my hands.

Mycroft gave me a look, "You are taking all this better than I would think."

"Yes, well, it's not crooked anymore, is it?" I put my hands up to my neck, "That would be rather bothersome," Suddenly, the memory of a loud snap filled my ears. I blinked it away, shivering. It snapped back into place while I was in the body cupboard thing. Good grief, what the heck was happening to me? My neck was apparently normal now, as far as I could tell. I turned to Mycroft who had the panicked look on his face again.

"There's a reasonable explanation for this." He stated.

"Obviously." Came my answer.

"I'm afraid the answer isn't as obvious as the fact that there is an answer."

I blinked, deciding not to answer that question, or statement, or whatever that was. "Yeah."

It was then that we heard a key in the lock. Someone was coming into the morgue! Mycroft's eyes grew even wider. I think his eyes might have just rolled out of his head if he did that again. "Hide!" He whisper-shouted.

I was sitting on the metal tray, halfway out of the dead-person fridge. "What? Where?"

"I don't know! In there!" he pointed at the fridge.

"Like _heck_! I am _not_ going back inside that!" I protested.

Mycroft gave me his typical you-are-such-a-pain-in-the-butt look and pulled me off the tray. I stumbled, my legs like taffy. A line from a movie I would never admit to watching played through my head, '_It just so happens that your friend here is only MOSTLY dead. There's a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive.'_

No. I shook the thought away. I was _not_ resorting to fantasy… Yet.

"Quick!" Mycroft hissed.

I tied the sheet tighter around my waist. "My apologies, the legs are not working at the moment." I took approximately three steps before tripping into a desk. "Apparently they haven't gotten the message."

Mycroft gritted his teeth, "If you make me carry you, Sherlock, I swear, I will not be gentle."

I glanced down at my sheet and straightened, relying on the desk beside me. "Got it. I'm fine- let's go."

Mycroft nodded hastily, pulling me along. I stumbled after him, in no state to resist. The door opened the moment we secured ourselves within a coat closet across the room. I heard a voice, "I'll be out in a minute, just left my keys,"

I held my breath, squished up against a broom, several lab coats and work pants. Mycroft was in front of me with the most laughable expression on his face. It was somewhere between mortification and- well, more mortification if you can imagine.

"I take it you haven't hidden in a broom closet lately." I murmured.

"Shut it."

A smirk shifted to my lips. Solving crime and irking my older brother- what a brilliant way to live. "That's what you get for being 'posh', Mycroft. No fun, just board meetings and paperwork. How _do_ you survive? You know there is a reason they're called _board_ meetings-"

"Do you _want_ to be found?" He hissed.

"Actually," I continued, ignoring him, "You're practically the British government, what are they going to do if they find you snooping around a morgue in the middle of the night? It's not like they can arrest you." I frowned, "Is _it_ the middle of the night?"

"Just past twelve-" Mycroft muttered, "And it would ruin my image."

"You could say you're visiting your dead brother." I paused, "mourning or something. I really wouldn't mind."

"You are an insolent prick."

"And you are a posh idiot."

"I saved your life!" he protested.

I snorted, "Yeah, after you killed me."

I'm afraid we were so involved in our argument that we didn't notice the footsteps stop in front of the door until it swung open. What a sight we must have been, Mycroft with his umbrella, and me in a sheet, crammed together like sardines in that coat closet.

The woman's face went white. Her eyes bounced from Mycroft to me. "Sh-Sherlock?" she sputtered

I bit my lip, "Hello, again."

The woman didn't finish her next sentence, and I don't blame her. Molly Hooper fainted dead away.


	3. A Bright-Eyed Stranger

Chapter 3

_Somewhere in Time and Space…_

The Doctor spun in a circle, adding an extra flourish to his already exceptional driving; at least, that's what he told himself. Lights blinked, mechanics whizzed, and a rather random popcorn machine popped. At the moment there was no one to show off too, and the Doctor slowly slid to a stop. The word 'pond' died in his mouth. That's right; they weren't here. What was the point of flourishes if no one appreciated his brilliance?

Sighing, he plucked at a lever and sat down heavily in a convenient chair he had not noticed before that very moment. Although it was hard to admit, even to himself, the Doctor knew he needed the Ponds. They were on Earth, watching ridiculously _boring_ black cubes instead of seeing the universe! (Talk about _priorities_.) He left after a few excruciating hours and went on adventures without them. If they wanted to stay home instead of being with him, that's fine, the Doctor would prove he didn't need them, but at the moment, he couldn't even convince himself.

The Doctor bit his lip, letting the TARDIS drift through the Time Vortex. Maybe he should go back; just pop in to say hello? The Doctor shook his head, they wouldn't leave until a whole year had passed and the cubes were deemed safe. "Maybe later," he murmured to himself. Leaning forward the Doctor covered his face with pale hands, elbows against knobby knees. For an instant, the Doctor's true age shined through. He looked like a young man, but he was old- _so_ old. Sometimes the weight of his years came crashing down onto his skinny shoulders and he could barely hold it up. This was why he needed companions- to help him forget the weight. Perhaps he could pick up River later today- or tonight- or whatever time it was, she always cheered him up.

A moment after the thought drifted away, the Doctor felt the air shift behind him. He was going to ignore it, but suddenly, the alien felt a light hand upon his left shoulder. Starting in surprise, the Doctor jumped out of the chair and knocked against the consol. He swiveled around, ready for the worse, and gaped at the sight before him. He couldn't believe his eyes. "How the- where in- _what_?"

The man before him wore a dark trench coat and a navy-blue scarf. He was a few inches taller than the Doctor and brownish-black curls fell into icy-blue eyes that interestingly enough, shimmered gold around the edges. His entire demeanor was reserved, like he tried to pull away from the world, but a light in the stranger's eyes betrayed raw excitement. For a moment, the gold ring around the edge of his irises threatened to overwhelm the whole eye-but just for a moment. However, what intrigued, and startled the Doctor the most, and there isn't much that startles a 1000+ year old Time Lord, was that if the Doctor looked carefully, he could see the walls of the TARDIS behind the man. The stranger wasn't quite solid.

Opening his mouth to babble once more, The Doctor was stopped by the man's raised hand. "Shh- no. Don't say anything. This is a lot harder to do when in motion." the man's eyes snapped shut and he appeared to be concentrating.

The Doctor stared, "_Hard_? It's _impossible_!" his voice squeaked in indignation.

Suddenly, there was a distinct pop in the air, like air pressure releasing. The man stumbled on the stairs, gripping a metal railing tightly. "Impossible, Doctor?" he smirked grimly, "I beg to differ." His voice was quiet, but in a lower register than the Doctor's. Distinctly, the Doctor felt the TARDIS murmur in the back of his mind.

_Purring? Seriously? Since when do you _purr_?!_

The man looked up. His eyes widened. "Well look at that, it _is_ bigger on the inside- you've never let me come in before now…"

"Sorry, _what_?" the Doctor sputtered.

Somehow the man knew him… _probably a future acquaintance_, the Doctor thought. It was not unusual for him to run into people he met in the future. However, that didn't explain how the stranger got in the TARDIS while she was still traveling. Glancing at the man's wrists, the Doctor was disturbed to see a lack of vortex manipulators. How did the stranger get inside? The Doctor raced past the man, who was fully solid now, and flung open the entrance of the police box. The Time Vortex swirled in beautiful, dangerous complexity outside, and the Doctor slammed the door shut. Swiveling on his heels, he frowned at the man. "How on _Gallifrey_ did you get in here?" he demanded in bafflement, "We're smack dab in the middle of the bloody Time Vortex!" flinging his hands in the air, he paced for a moment, "You can't just-" he gestured desperately with his hands, "Just _materialize_! And I-" he raced to the consul to confirm his next statement; "Yes- yes, see?" he pointed at the screen, "I even have the shields up."

The man pulled out an IPhone for a moment before looking back up at the Doctor. "Um- no, sorry. I really can't tell you how I got here."

"Says _who_?!"

"You do." He gestured to the IPhone, where seemingly, he received instructions.

Well then. That put things into perspective a bit. Sort of. Maybe a pinch. "Future me. Interesting." the Doctor stepped forward, extending his screwdriver. He needed to know if the stranger was human, which he began to doubt was true.

The man looked at his phone again. He held a hand up. "No, you can't do that either."

"You're on _my_ ship. I have full rights!" the Doctor protested. He tried to scan him once more.

"I said no." the man stated, casually tapping the screwdriver away with a pale finger. The sonic sparked and the Doctor dropped it in shock. It rolled over the edge of the glass floor and fell into the depths of the TARDIS.

The Doctor didn't notice. He stared at the man in renewed speculation and curiosity. "Who _are_ you?" he asked.

Peering in mild surprise at his hand, the stranger ignored the Doctor, "Oh that's new," he murmured, inspecting his fingers, "Should have tried that _ages_ ago."

"_What_?"

Shoving his hands into coat pockets, the man bounced on his toes for a moment, "I don't really have time to chat. I'm not sure how long I can stay." The man flickered, "The Doctor says to tell you-" suddenly he disappeared.

The Doctor rolled his eyes, grabbing at his hair. He spun in a circle, "Tell me _what_?"

The stranger reappeared behind the Doctor, stumbling into him, "Sorry, bad connection. I'm not exactly an expert at this sort of thing." He frowned, "well I am, I suppose, in comparison to everyone el-"

"You have a message." The Doctor interrupted. If his future self intended him to hear what this man said, it was probably important.

"Yes, right." The stranger nodded, "You need to tell Mycroft Holmes to let his brother out of the morgue."

The Doctor blinked. That's it? "But how-?" The stranger blinked out of existence, enticing a grumble from the Doctor.

Right. He had instructions, but the Doctor couldn't go through with them unless he had the-

"Coordinates!" The stranger shouted like it was an after thought, snapping into view once more. He handed the Doctor a folded sheet of paper. "Here you are."

The Doctor took it. Unfolding the paper revealed bits of scribbling in Gallifreyan. The Doctor read it quickly and glanced up at the dark-haired stranger. "This is my handwriting."

"Obviously." The stranger disappeared and then appeared once more in another spot. "Oh, and Doctor?"

"What now?"

The stranger took an item out of his pocket and enclosed it in the Doctor's hand. "You'll need this," he vanished.

The Doctor hesitated, waiting to see if the stranger appeared again. He didn't.

Slowly, the Doctor turned to the consol and began entering the coordinates into the TARDIS database. After getting about halfway through the address, the stranger appeared again.

The Doctor jumped out of his skin, smacking the top of his head on the screen. "Would you _please_ stop doing that!"

The stranger didn't seem to hear, "When you find Mycroft, give that-" he pointed at the item he had given the Doctor, "-to him and have him put it in John's front pocket." He turned away, walking toward the front of the TARDIS. "I'll take the door this time!" he called over his shoulder.

"Wait! Who's John? Or Mycroft- for that matter" the Doctor cried, racing after the retreating figure. Suddenly, he realized what the stranger intended to do. "You can't go out there!"

The stranger's eyes shinned brightly. He swung open the doors, glancing back at the alien in grim amusement, "Can't I?" and with that the stranger jumped out of the TARDIS and disappeared from view.

"NO!" the Doctor screamed after him, but it was too late. No one could survive inside the Time Vortex without protection. Already, the man would be dead.

The Doctor shook his head, shutting the door quickly. What a day this was… Opening his fist, the Doctor beheld his sonic screwdriver.

* * *

**AN: Please review!**


	4. Loose Brick on the Left

Chapter 3

"What do we do with her?" I asked, staring at the woman.

Mycroft scowled, he perfected that expression years ago. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he muttered, "I'll get someone to clear the hospital halls."

"We can take her to your house, or _estate_, if you prefer."

"My house?" Mycroft rolled my eyes, "To risky, there are all sorts of people around. Someone might see you. Why not Bakers Street? It's closer anyway." He powered down the IPhone and quickly exited the morgue.

"John will probably be there."

"And?" he glanced back, halfway through the doorway.

"And wasn't this whole fake suicide supposed to convince him I'm dead?"

"Him and others," Mycroft replied, like I didn't know. "You need to get some clothes on."

I rolled my eyes. "It's not like they people haven't seen me in a sheet before." I recalled the incident at Buckingham Palace fondly.

"Yes," Mycroft spoke slowly, "And it attracted a good deal of attention, which is exactly what we do _not_ need. We need a plan before everyone realizes you're… back."

I was half tempted to refuse to put on clothes just because Mycroft asked, but grudgingly I saw the logic in his statement. Turning to the closet we _so_ successfully hid in, I snatched a pair of grey work pants and a stray lap coat. Quickly replacing the sheet with the clothes, I folded the lab coat over my chest. I glanced down at my torso and noticed bits of dried blood pasted onto my body, but not a single cut. Curious and disconcerted, I felt the side of my head to discover my hair was caked in the same substance; however, there was no injury of any sort.

For some reason this realization made my breath hitch in my chest. If it was truly a mistake, if I had somehow managed not to die, then wouldn't I still have some injuries? I glanced at my wrist, where the handcuffs me and John wore an eternity ago had chafed the skin.

There was nothing.

Actually, every scar I had ever acquired was erased.

I was a clean slate.

_What?_

If Mycroft hadn't been around, I think I might have started to panic, closing my eyes, I berated myself, attempting to regain my composure.

It wasn't working. My hands shook and I felt terror claw at me. I would _not_ show such weakness in front of him Mycroft. I refused. Instead, I clenched my fists to keep them from shaking. I wasn't very successful, but it was better than nothing.

"So it's fine if John finds out." I stated, worried, but slightly relieved, "We can't keep me from Molly since she's…" I trailed off, gesturing at her prone form.

Mycroft nodded in understanding. "But you have to stay hidden from everyone else."

Picking Molly up like I would a child, I proceeded to the door. She didn't weigh much, and my legs cooperated better now; however, my arms still shook with fatigue like I'd run a marathon.

"You dying shifts the agenda a bit. He ought to know you're okay. We should only tell those who are absolutely necessary." My brother explained. "John is necessary."

Thinking about that for a moment, I was tempted to be irked by Mycroft's stubborn command of _every_ situation. Then I muttered, too tired to argue, "Alright."

Mycroft held open the door and I stepped through with Molly in my arms. He seemed surprised by my compliance, but didn't complain. Following after me, Mycroft and I observed the empty halls.

I suppose having a brother in command of an army of secret service agents and spies did have its perks… not that I'd admit it to Mycroft. Grunting in approval, I let my brother lead the way to a discrete EXIT sign that let out behind the hospital.

Outside, London was cloaked in darkness and a brisk wind cut through the thin lab coat draped loosely over my shoulders. I shivered, but was otherwise unaffected_. Strange,_ I thought. Usually I'd be tightening my coat and scarf against this sort of cold. Now a t-shirt would have been sufficient.

I didn't let myself dwell it, instead turning my attention to the non-descript black car pulling into the alleyway.

Glancing at Mycroft, I noted his non-expressive expression. He wasn't worried about the car. He was expecting it. The car ground to a stop and a man in a suit stepped out, opened the passenger door and quickly settled back into the driver's seat. It was obvious the driver intentionally tried to keep from discern the identity of anyone else besides Mycroft. In my brother's line of business, it was sometimes better not to know.

"A smart driver," I mentioned, setting Molly inside the car and climbing in after her.

Mycroft nodded absently, seated across from me. "Yes," he breathed, "He knows when not to get involved."

I nodded and we quickly lapsed into silence. The driver was on the other side of tinted glass, as was the rest of London.

The rain pattered lightly against the window, and I watched each bead as they slowly lost their grip and dripped down the glass. Leaning closer in boredom, I peered into the crystal droplets.

Suddenly my vision sharpened, like I was looking through a magnifying glass. I could see every detail the way a hawk might. The light struck each end of the droplets and bounced, glittering and shimmering. It was beautiful, but I jumped away, startled and confused.

Instantly my vision reverted to its normal state. Shaking my head to clear it, I leaned against my knees, hands behind my neck, and squeezed my eyes shut.

_What is happening to me?_

Mycroft frowned in concern, but I didn't notice, to busy trying to put my disorderly thoughts back in their appropriate cupboards. I think Mycroft wouldn't believe me if I told him everything I own, in my mind, and outside of it had a proper place. He only saw the conglomeration of my life, the idiot. I didn't mind anything being a bit chaotic, as long as everything was where it was supposed to be. Mycroft never understood that.

He doesn't understand that cleaning is just putting things in less obvious places. What _is_ the point again? I think I deleted the answer, if there ever was one.

Every time he went into my flat, I watched his lips curl in distaste at the 'mess' but it wasn't a mess, not really, it's only messy if things aren't where I want them. If I want it sitting in the middle of the floor, then it is perfectly fine, as long as it stays there and no one moves it, something John is _constantly_ doing.

John. My thoughts stopped at his name. How is this going to work? I glanced at Mycroft, "What am I going to do, jump out of a cake?"

Mycroft snorted, tapping his shoe with the umbrella. "I suppose you could just show up, like we're going to do. I'm sure he manage."

I nodded, inwardly admitting I am rubbish at this sort of thing.

Suddenly the car stopped, jerking us out of our quiet conversation. Exchanging a look with my brother, Mycroft climbed out of the car, checking whether we were alone. Apparently we were, because he gestured me to follow.

The pratt didn't take time to help me drag an unconscious woman from the car, but left me to do it myself. And our parents wonder why we never got along…

Huffing, I grabbed Molly and set her against a brick wall across from a small door. Mycroft spoke quickly to the driver, who promptly drove away. I nodded, watching my brother saunter over to us. I do believe I looked like a train wreck, but Mycroft only gave me a cursory glance. I suppose he realized there was not much anyone could do about my appearance right now.

"Where are we?" I asked. The night was dark and all I could see was the outline of a small alleyway.

Mycroft's eyebrows raised, "Behind Baker's Street, don't you recognize it?"

Blinking, I took a closer look. I took in the scratch at the bottom of the white backdoor, the overturned trashcan, and the crack straight down the sidewalk. I frowned, "I- yes, of course. It must have evaded me for a moment."

With a snort, Mycroft proceeded to the backdoor, "Aren't losing your touch are you, Sherlock?"

I gave him a short bark of laughter, "As if."  
Mycroft didn't reply, trying to door.

"It's locked." I supplied unhelpful.

"Thank you, brother. I can see." He paused, "Unlike you, apparently."

Wow. I suppose the whole clemency act after my returning was a fast fading action. I rolled my eyes. "The key is inside the loose brick at the bottom left corner."

Mycroft glared at me, reaching down and extracting the key.

I only came through this door when being chased, which happened quite a lot, as one might imagine.

Instantly I was swamped in a memory.

_"Which brick, Sherlock!" John shouted._

_Glancing behind us, I saw the black shirt of our pursuer. They followed us to Baker's street, but didn't know what house we lived it. "I- um…"_

_"SHERLOCK!"_

_"Alright!" I cried, bending down. "It's on the right- no, the left- no, right. I don't-"_

_"Now is _not_ the time to have a memory lapse!"_

_I groaned, pushing him away. Despite what everyone thinks, I really can't be expected to remember _everything_. "Just shut up for a second!"  
John huffed, pulling up to glance into to street. He leaned down against the door, as did I. "They're narrowing their search," he said. "Be here any second!"_

_"Like I don't know!" I quickly dived into my mind palace, cluttering up the place with my chaotic probing. It would take ages to put everything back in their proper place._

_ "AH!" my eyes flew open, locking with John's._

_"Not so loud!" he cautioned, "They'll hear us!"_

_I rolled my eyes, "And you weren't just shouting yourself!"_

_"Yeah? Well you're much louder when you yell, you-"_

_Suddenly the door concaved. We tumbled into the house, falling awkwardly into each other and a startled Mrs. Hudson._

_"Oh sorry dears," she chimed, "Was I interrupting?" she winked conspiratorially at John, an action I chose to ignore. He didn't realize she only said things like that to irk him. That woman was far more intelligent than people gave her credit._

_John rolled his eyes, standing and brushing himself off. "For the last time Mr Hudson, we are not-"_

_"John! I suggest we go upstairs," I interrupted, shutting the door. "If I'm quick I might be able to calculate their next move." I'd already move on from their petty, and may I say, _continual_ banter._

_John nodded, back to business. I noted the gleam of pleasure in his eye. He loved doing this, just like me. _

_We clomped up the stairs and stopped at the door. "You don't remember the brick, do you?" john said, a gleam in his eye, like this a personal victory of his._

_I snorted, "Of course I remember!" now… I added silently, "Loose brick third to the left, slight discoloring on the right hand corner."_

_"Yeah, whatever. Let's go."_

I tumbled out of the memory to watch Mycroft step inside. Suddenly apprehensive, I hesitated. Picking Molly up again, who was still stubbornly unconscious, I slowly proceeded to the door.

I felt strange, coming back here. It was like I didn't belong- not anymore. I didn't belong anywhere.

Shaking off the emotion like cold water, I stepped through the threshold_. No going back now_.

Mycroft was in the kitchen. I could hear his voice jangling like car keys, and Mrs. Hudson's tired whisperings. Probably I should go in there, it would make Mycroft's job of explaining much easier, but then again, it's wasn't like he planned to explain everything to her. No one could believe what _actually_ happened, and we had no way to prove it.

"It was fake…" I heard him say as I set Molly against the stairwell. Frowning, I snapped at her face. We must have given her a heck of a scare to keep her out this long.

"Molly." I whispered, "Molly, wake up now." She moaned, but otherwise didn't respond. I couldn't help but notice how innocent and happy she looked, not tired or sad like she was when her eyes opened. Yes- I had noticed she looked sad, even though she was something I kept in my peripheral vision. I had much more important things to do, but I still noticed. I made the mistake of letting a woman move into to center of my attention before, but I wasn't going to do that again- too risky.

She didn't move. Jeeze. Out cold. Sighing, I stood slowly. John should probably look at her. He might have smelling salts or whatever doctor's use to wake people up.

It's then that I heard the sound of a hand slapping my brother's face. I smirked. She was always a feisty one, just rather quiet about it. "How DARE You!"

I heard high heels clipping into the hall and realized what would happen next. Crap.

"SHERLOCK!" Mrs. Hudson shouted.

_Oh dear. _My voice caught in my throat.

Mrs. Hudson tried again, looking around the corner but not seeing me quite yet, "Sherlock Hol-!"

Then she halted. Her eyes climbed from Molly up to my face.

I froze up, managing a small cough. "Hello."

At first she didn't move at all. Her mouth took the form of a tight O, but then she sprang forward, making me jerk back. Certainly, I thought I was about to receive the same treatment as Mycroft, but instead of a smack, she snatched at my waist, pulling me into a tight hug. I was so much taller than her, it was like embracing a child.

I blinked in surprise, my arms sticking out awkwardly. Slowly I patted her on the head. Wasn't that the sort of thing people usually did? I wasn't sure.

"Mrs. Hudson…" I muttered, "Erm-"

"Oh yes! That's right, you don't do touching." She jumped away hurriedly.

I shrugged, not sure how to respond.

Hands on fragile hips, Mrs. Hudson gave me a once over. "What on Earth are you wearing, Sherlock?" she peered closer at my hair, craning her neck up. "Is- is that _blood_!"

"It's fake." I lied quickly, soothing her, "It was all fake- the whole set up. I never died." Guilt twisted my stomach uncomfortably and I pushed away the emotion. Since when did I feel guilty about _lying_? I did it all the time!

Mrs. Hudson just shook her head, "Well I'll be… If you ever try that again-" she adopted a suitably intimidating stare, opting to leave the threat unfinished.

Nodding gravely, I let a small smirk slip past my lips. I wish I could forget what had actually happened when I jumped. To believe the lie I told would be so much simpler, but the memory of falling- _dying_ was permanently branded into my mind.

Mycroft decided to enter the hallway at that moment. A smug look flew to my face when I saw the red handprint clearly printed on his cheek. He rubbed it subconsciously. I wasn't quite sure why Mrs. Hudson slapped him and not me, but I wasn't complaining. I suppose it had something to do with a lack of sympathy or some sort of emotional nonsense... Mycroft tended to do that; apparently it's offensive. Mycroft sent me a glare that could fry a pancake, but I was unpretentious. Sometimes it's like he knows what I'm thinking. He's the only one who can do that.

Suddenly I heard the sound of a door shutting and footsteps clomping slowly down the stairs.

John.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, clambering downwards, "What's all the rack-"

He froze mid-step, half swung around the stair railing. John's reaction to my, um, _restoration_, was by far unique.

"John-" I started.

The man I called a friend's face turned from white to red and he rushed at me.

"JOHN!" I protested, but he didn't stop. Mrs. Hudson bustled out of the way, and John flew forward.

My head slammed against the wall and John's hands gripped the lab coat. I must not have been at my best, since usually I bested him when it came to strength. Restoration apparently takes a bit to recover from.

"What the _heck_ were you thinking, you _bloody_ _idiot_!" John shouted.

"I-"

"NO," he interrupted my interruption, "Don't speak! Don't say anything!"

I didn't speak and he continued with his verbal and physical onslaught. I glanced at Mycroft for help, but he seemed to be enjoying my situation, the prat.

"You were dead! Why would you do that? Do you have any idea what it's been like?" John shouted.

I blinked, taking in his tousled hair and bloodshot eyes. For a moment I felt exhausted. I sighed, "I'm sorry." The words slipped from my tongue awkwardly and floated in the air between us.

Even Mycroft seemed surprise. I suppose it's not often that I apologized, but John deserved it.

John stepped back, still holding my shirt. Shock swirled in blue orbs. "What?"

I gulped, "I said, I'm sorry. It was necessary for your… your." Why couldn't I just spit it out?!

Now John just looked baffled, "My what?" he glanced at Mycroft, who finally stepped in.

"There were several gun men pointed at each and every one of Sherlock's, ah, friends. You were one of them."

John frowned, "So?" he turned back to me, "What does that have to do with committing suicide, _oh excuse me_, PRETENDING to commit suicide?"

Pursing my lips, I glanced down at my feet. John had lifted me just high enough that only the tips of my feet brushed the floor. How on Earth could he even do that? "I had to jump, and everyone had to see it…"

"Otherwise you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Molly would die." Mycroft finished for me.

I bit my lip, and John just stared in shock. "You did that for me, for us? I mean, I know it was fake, but still…"

_If you only knew, John._ I thought. Suddenly I was uncomfortable, with him thinking me kind. It messed with my image… "Would you mind." I complained, gesturing at my feet.

John seemed startled. He set me down, searching my face. I turned away. "Jeeze, Sherlock, you weigh practically nothing. How does that even work?"

I frowned, "Ah, honestly?"

"That would be appreciated,"

"I haven't the faintest."

John frowned, "You don't look any thinner, but I could swear you don't weigh any more than a hundred pounds!"

Now Mycroft stepped up to inspect me. I pushed them away, "Would you not." I complained, pressing through them.

John noticed Molly leaning against the wall then. "What? What's wrong with her?"

"She fainted when she saw Sherlock." Mycroft explained dryly. "Hasn't woken up yet."

Hopping up the stairs, I called down, "John, follow me, and bring Molly, would you. I believe she needs smelling salts or something. Mycroft?"

"What, little brother?"

"Don't follow." I stated. Mycroft huffed, "And Mrs. Hudson?" I called from the door of my apartment. I turned the doorknob.

"Yes?" came the fragile reply.

"Get me something to eat, actually, preferably a lot of things!" I didn't notice how starving I was until that moment.

"Of course dear…" Mrs. Hudson murmured, scuttling into the kitchen.

John's feet padded up the stairs carrying Molly, and he stood behind me.

"Well then," I stated. "In we go."


End file.
